


King's Pardon

by Skarabrae_stone



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, T'Challa is the best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 20:05:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14504490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skarabrae_stone/pseuds/Skarabrae_stone
Summary: Missing scene from the end of Captain America: Civil War. What happened when Steve and Bucky escaped Tony, only to find T'Challa waiting for them?





	King's Pardon

**Author's Note:**

> I actually forgot that this meeting WASN'T in the movie until I watched it again recently. So I had to write my own version.

They stumble out of the base, Steve supporting most of Bucky’s weight despite his own injuries, and come to an abrupt halt. Thirty yards away, the Black Panther stands between them and the quinjet.

“What is this, Avenge-Your-Dad-Day?” Bucky mutters balefully. “Christ Almighty.”

Steve, to his own astonishment, snickers.

It’s been a long day, a long week, a long two years, and he’s probably got a concussion, and he’s so far beyond exhausted that he’s come out the other side. _I guess this is what they mean by punch-drunk_ , he thinks giddily, then, _c’mon, Steve, focus._

Fighting through the haze of fatigue, adrenaline, and pain, he tries to concentrate on the problem at hand. T’Challa has spent the past—two? three? he doesn’t even know anymore—days trying to kill them, and Steve… well, hell must be freezing over, because right now, Steve doesn’t have any fight left in him. The little spark of amusement fades, leaving him empty.

“Come on,” he sighs, hitching Bucky’s arm a bit higher over his shoulder. “Might as well face the music.”

Bucky manages a few more faltering steps, gripping hard at the fabric of Steve’s uniform. “He gonna kill us, do you think?”

“The way our luck is going?”

“Good point.”

T’Challa doesn’t move as they limp toward him, face impassive even without the mask. Steve aches all over; his face is tacky with blood, and the way his ribs are throbbing makes him think at least one of them is broken. All he wants is to just lie down somewhere, to go to sleep and maybe wake up in another thirty years or so…

About ten feet from T’Challa, he halts. “Your Highness.”

T’Challa inclines his head. “Captain Rogers. Where is Mr. Stark?”

Steve winces. “He’s… uh… back there.” He makes a feeble gesture with his right hand, already missing the shield.

“Alive?”

“Yes, alive—of course he’s alive, I would _never_ …” He breaks off, remembering his own desperation, the panic in Tony’s face as he’d raised his shield. There had been a moment, there, where he could have brought it down on Tony’s neck, rather than his suit. There was a moment where he almost did.

“He’s hurt,” he says after a moment. “But he’ll live.”

He doesn’t really know what else to say, still reeling from everything else that’s happened, and it startles him when Bucky speaks.

“So are you gonna kill us, or what?”

T’Challa shakes his head. “I have no intention of killing you. I am here to offer my assistance.”

Steve knows his disbelief is written all over his face, and T’Challa must see it too, because he steps forward, palms out, and says, “I was wrong. I was wrong to seek revenge, instead of justice. And I find I was wrong to accuse you, Sergeant Barnes. I know now that you did not kill my father. You have suffered because of my mistakes, and for that, I am sorry.”

“Okay,” says Bucky, blankly. “No… hard feelings.”

Steve glances behind them. “I don’t mean to be rude, Your Highness, but we kind of need to get out of here. Stark—”

“I know,” T’Challa says. “I am offering you refuge. Both of you. In Wakanda. You may take my jet.” He gestures at the sleek craft behind him.

Steve blinks at it. “I was, I mean, that’s very kind of you, but Bucky needs medical attention, and…”

“I have already arranged for our finest medical and technical experts to be on hand when you arrive,” says T’Challa. “The flight details are already programmed in.” He smiles slightly. “You should take me up in this offer, Captain. You will not get such a good opportunity again.”

“You’ve spent the past few days trying to kill Bucky,” Steve points out. “Forgive me if I’m being rude, but, uh…”

T’Challa nods gravely. “Of course, you have no reason to trust me.” He meets their eyes. “I swear, on my honor as the Black Panther, and on the memory of my father, King T’Chaka, that I intend you no harm.”

Steve still hesitates, but Bucky nudges him. “We don’t have much of a choice, Steve,” he murmurs. “We’re running out of options, here.”

“Okay. I… thank you.” He offers his hand to the other man, and T’Challa shakes it.

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Captain.” T’Challa lets go his hand. “Now, I must take care of Zemo and Stark. I will see you in Wakanda.”

“Thank you,” Steve repeats for the third time, and T’Challa makes an odd gesture, crossing his arms over his chest, before heading past them toward the missile silo.

They make the last few yards to the jet in silence, collapsing onto the comfortable seats the moment they’re inside. As the jet takes off, Steve has a moment of panic—what if this is a trap? What if this is all part of some elaborate ruse to get Bucky killed or captured or…

“Shuddup, Rogers, I can hear you thinking from here,” says Bucky, leaning back against the seat with his eyes closed. “Come on, if this is all a trap, we’ll deal with it, like we always do.”

It’s false bravado, and they both know it; if someone else comes after them now, they’re in no shape to fight. But somehow, Steve doesn’t think it will come to that.

“I believe T’Challa,” he says slowly. “I think… he seems honorable.”

“Mm,” is all Bucky says. His eyes are still closed, his breathing fast and shallow, but at least he is alive, and free.

Steve pulls off his cowl, running a hand through sweat-slicked hair. Hysteria bubbles in his chest, the tragic ridiculousness of their situation hitting him all at once. He’s burned all his bridges, thrown away everything he knows, but he can’t bring himself to regret it, not with Bucky’s life on the line.

Later, he knows, he’ll agonize over every decision that brought them to this point, examine all the _if-onlys_ and _could-have-beens_. For now, he stares at the computer monitor, watching as they draw steadily closer to Wakanda, and dares to hope, for the first time in ages, that everything will somehow be alright.


End file.
